The cloudless sky appeared as a vast blue ocean as the Captain drove downtown. Since he was early, he found the traffic a bit less of a hassle then usual. Shopkeepers were already getting things in order for the business day. He saw women sweeping sidewalks in front of family shops and brightly-dressed school children on the move. Restaurants, coffee houses and tabangs, tearooms, were gearing up for another busy day. The essence of Seoul was change, clearly evidenced by the cranes and scaffolding seen in nearly every direction, along with the steady bustle of people and vehicles crowding the streets throughout the business and commercial districts.
Arriving at his office across from the Seoul Railroad Station, Yun gave nodding acknowledgement to colleagues he passed in the hallway, some with the tired look of night shift workers headed home. No one bothered to stop him for a casual chat. He was an odd ball in an even world, and everyone knew it. He had a well-deserved reputation as a sharp thinker and a tireless worker but had never learned the art of relaxation. If he had been an actor, they would have said he was always on stage. He never really thought about it, but there was no one he could claim as a truly close friend. The fact that it didn't bother him was an indication of an ingrained standoffishness.
He had picked up a morning newspaper on the way in and sat down at his desk to see if anything of interest had occurred overnight. President Kwak dominated the front page as usual. He was preparing to meet with a delegation from the North later in the week. A limited amount of travel through the former dead-end road at Panmunjom in the Demilitarized Zone was being allowed, mostly people desiring to visit family members in the other half of the peninsula. Arrangements had been made for mail delivery between North and South. Yun was happy to see the changes. The country should never have been split up to start with.
As he leafed through the pages, a headline caught his eye, something about a brawl at the American Embassy. He read the story with interest. There were two photographs accompanying the article, one a Korean named Ko Pong-hak, the other a black American named Damon Mansfield. According to the account, the men had gotten into an argument during a press reception at the Embassy, where Mansfield served as cultural attaché. Ko, an information officer with the Ministry of Culture and Information, said they were discussing a disagreement about the source of Korean-American friction when Mansfield called President Kwak "a stooped, lying, stupid gook." Gook was the unflattering term GI's had begun using for Koreans back in the 1950's war. Some laughed it off, like whites in the U.S. who took no offense at being called "honkies." To others it was a despicable, degrading insult. But regardless of how you took that, Yun thought, calling the president a liar and stupid, and making light of his physical disability, was unforgivable.
He read on how Ko said the tall American was staggering drunk and had attempted to throw a drink at him, then shoved him into the floor so hard it stunned him. The story related that Mansfield had played basketball at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. Yun remembered the Georgetown area from his stay in the United States. He vaguely recalled something about the university being noted for studies in the field of foreign relations. Mansfield, according the story, had been suspended at one time for fighting with another player.
The newspaper said it had not been able to interview the diplomat. However, the Embassy issued a statement saying Mansfield denied having insulted the president or having attacked Ko. Ambassador Shearing said it appeared to be an unfortunate misunderstanding between the two men. He said in the confused aftermath, charges had been made which evidently resulted from a misinterpretation of what had happened. The government of the United States and the ambassador personally regretted the incident and apologized for any distress it might have caused President Kwak or the people of the Republic of Korea. Mansfield was being transferred back to the United States immediately.
Yun looked at the picture of the Korean again, then at his name. They were both familiar. Then he remembered. Yun was an avid follower of the Asian Games and had helped with security at the 1988 Olympics. He recalled that Ko was a member of the Korean Taekwondo team. They were involved in medal competition at the Asian Games and a demonstration event at the Olympics. As best he could recall, Ko had been identified as a construction worker. If he were now a government information officer, he must have taken a crash course in journalism. Reading the account again, he had to shake his head. There was no way Ko could have been decked like that by a drunken man, even one as tall and rangy as the American. With his ability, Ko should have had this Mansfield on the floor before he knew what hit him. The whole episode had begun to smell. But it was not any of his concern. Yun tossed the newspaper aside and began to go through his files in preparation for the trip to the prosecutor's office.
He had just finished getting everything in order when his phone rang. It was Superintendent So, the head of his division.
"I realize you're probably overloaded, Captain, but I have no one else available at the moment to send on this. We have an apparent homicide at a residence over on the edge of Namsan, not far from Sookmyung Women's University. The victim is a Dr. Lee Yo-ku. The officers on the scene will be expecting you. I trust it will be somewhat less complicated than the Yi and Yang cases."
Not to mention Mr. Chon, Yun thought. Probably sooner than later he would be forced to reckon with his police superiors in addition to Prosecutor Park. He twisted his face in a display of frustration and glared at his watch. He should have begged off with the excuse that he was to meet Prosecutor Park at nine. But Yun's work ethic did not allow him the luxury of refusal. When his superiors called on him to do a job, if there were any way possible to accomplish it, he would. In this case, should it prove to be a simple, uncomplicated family matter, as most homicides were, he just might have time to get the initial investigation out of the way before his appointment with Park.
The area was hardly more than five minutes away, along the edge of the big mountain that housed the Seoul Tower and loomed over the central business district. Like so many sections of the capital, it contained a jumble of houses, ranging from the more ornate dwellings of the well-to-do to the modest one or two-room hovels of the down and out. Yun spotted the blue and white police car parked beside the brick wall of the Lee compound. It appeared to be one of the nicer structures, located on the corner of a small roadway that branched off toward more modest homes. He pressed the bell at the courtyard entrance and was greeted by a fresh-faced young patrolman who eyed him uncertainly and inquired, "Captain Yun?"
"Yes. What's the situation here?"
"I'm Patrolman Han. Sergeant Kim is in the bedroom with the body of Dr. Lee. His son found him around eight, said he was normally up well before then. Looks like a robbery. He says several items are missing."
"Where's the son now?"
"Out in the kitchen with two ajumma-tul. He's pretty well shaken. He was asleep in another bedroom and heard nothing."
The house was traditionally designed. Large steps led into the living room. The kitchen was located across the way. Also opening off the courtyard were several smaller rooms, including bedrooms. Sliding doors of light-colored wood with glass panes led into the rooms. Each had a peaked red tile roof, curved upward at the ends, creating a rambling roofline that snaked about the compound.
Captain Yun followed the patrolman into the living room. It was furnished in a mixture of Korean and Western styles. A group of polished wood chests, elaborately decorated with brass, lined one wall. There was also a sofa and two high-backed chairs, along with an entertainment center that housed a TV set and stereo components.
"Did the pakssa teach at Sookmyung?" Yun asked as they continued on toward Dr. Lee's bedroom. The term pakssa, which referred to a Ph.D., was spoken with great respect.
"He was a history professor at Seoul National University."
Yun nodded silently. As they entered the bedroom, he saw the body of a gray-haired man dressed in blue pajamas lying partially on a sleeping mat, face down, one leg pulled up, looki
ng for the world like someone sleeping. However, the splotches of red that spread out on either side left no doubt that the professor's dreams had been turned into the ultimate nightmare. The Captain squatted beside him and lifted a shoulder. The blood-soaked pajamas had been slashed open in the front and a nasty gash showed in Dr. Lee's chest, just below the sternum.
Yun stood and looked around the room. Bookshelves covered two walls. A large painting of a tiger on a silk scroll hung above one shelf. A smaller piece of art featuring Taoist ideographs—the Chinese characters Su, longevity, and Pok, happiness—was displayed nearby. Those blessings probably best described the ultimate goal of the Korean quest for peace and harmony, Yun thought. Marks showed on the wall where another frame had been hung, but he saw only an empty hook now. He stared back at the body.
"He may have heard something and surprised the burglar," Yun speculated.
"The ajumma-tul sleep in the women's quarters next to the kitchen," said Sergeant Kim, a tall man with a bull neck and massive shoulders. "The son's bedroom is next door. No one heard anything."
Yun digested that bit of information. The thin walls provided little sound barrier. Either the killer was quite skilled, or this was, indeed, a family affair.
A chime sounded and Patrolman Han hurried out to the front entrance."
"It's probably the photographer," Captain Yun said. He turned to the sergeant. "Call for an ID unit, please. We'll need to check for prints, though I doubt we'll find any. This was either a professional or an inside job." He looked over at the chest, where a thin billfold lay among some coins and a set of keys. "What kind of items were taken?"
"The son said he carried several large bills in a money clip. It's missing. Also a few small silver figures. The main thing, though, was a glass-framed display of rare gold coins. It hung there," he said, pointing to the empty hook on the wall.
"Captain Yun," said a jovial voice from the doorway. "You keep coming up with business for me. Shall I get on with it?"
The photographer who had made the photos at Mr. Chon's market stall glanced around the room. He was a breezy, irreverent character who seemed to take nothing seriously. Yun knew it was part of a defense mechanism to compensate for all the blood and gore he was forced to concentrate on in this line of work.
"By all means," said the Captain. "Apparently you work no better hours than I do."
The young officer started setting up his lights. "Keeps kimchi in the pot," he said with a chuckle.
Chapter 25
Jerry Chan had written the directions in hangul so the taxi driver would be sure to find the proper destination. Many streets in Seoul were unnamed, so directions had to be given in relation to particular intersections, landmarks and the like. Burke was going alone since Jerry had an appointment with the real estate agent to check out prospective office space. As the cab zipped south on Sogongro, Burke thought about the disaster at the reception. He had not seen a newspaper this morning, nor found time to call the Embassy. After the brief but startling encounter between Mansfield and the Korean, most of the press people had quickly dispersed and the party collapsed of its own dead weight. He and Jerry had found themselves back at the hotel with the evening still young. They wound up at the Chosun's bistro, the Xanadu, getting a taste of night life Korean style. But it hadn't been enough to diminish the feeling of gloom.
As the driver moved slowly up the street, staring about in search of the proper house, Burke noticed police cars parked at the corner. Korea still used red flashing lights for its patrol cars, rather than the familiar blue of the U.S. Then the cab stopped just beyond them and the driver pointed, "This place you go."
Burke paid the fare, which seemed reasonable enough in comparison to Washington taxis, and stepped out. He wondered why the police were here. Maybe there had been a break-in. Or perhaps Dr. Lee was an authority on something the police were interested in. If he were busy with the officers, Burke would have no problem waiting. He stepped up to the entrance and pressed the button.
The door was opened by a uniformed officer who spoke to him in Korean.
Burke spred his palms, a perplexed look on his face. "Sorry, I don't speak Korean. I have an appointment with Dr. Lee."
The man shrugged. Obviously he didn't speak English. He turned and called out to someone inside. A few moments later, a man dressed in a blue suit, wearing round, metal-rimmed glasses, came out of the house. At first, Burke thought it must be Dr. Lee. But as he studied the stern face, the probing eyes and the way the young policeman seemed to fade into the background, he became more than a little concerned about the situation.
"I am Captain Yun Yu-sop," the man said, his face an impenetrable mask. "Seoul Metropolitan Police Bureau. Can I help you?"
Burke made no attempt to hide his concern. "Yes, Captain. I'm Burke Hill, an American businessman. I had an appointment with Dr. Lee Yo-ku. Is there some problem?"
"Yes, Mr. Hill, there is a problem. What business did you have with Dr. Lee?"
Burke took out a business card and handed it to the officer. "I just arrived Sunday night. Our company is opening an office here. We represent the American Council for Business in Korea. Mr. Mansfield at the American Embassy recommended Dr. Lee as a good person to talk to. I'm interested in background information on how Koreans feel nowadays about America, and particularly American businesses and products."
"Please come with me," Yun said and turned toward the living room.
Burke followed the Captain, removing his shoes before stepping inside.
"Have a seat, Mr. Hill." Yun turned to the two officers and spoke in Korean. They hurried off into other parts of the compound.
A police photographer came through with his equipment, said something to the Captain, and left. The detective checked his watch and frowned. Then he turned back to Burke. "Please forgive me, but I must make a telephone call first." He sat in a chair beside the phone and dialed a number.
As the Captain talked, Burke considered the situation. Three officers and a police photographer could mean only one thing. Dr. Lee was not available now, and would not likely be in the future. He had been around enough homicide cases to sense what was happening. He was beginning to feel a bit like that group Damon Mansfield had mentioned. Jinxed. First the incident at the Embassy, now this. What had started out looking like a good contact with a friendly Korean now appeared to be another disaster. He hoped Jerry was having better luck with his end of the operation.
Captain Yun replaced the phone and turned his attention back to the Burke. "I'm sorry for the interruption," he said.
"Dr. Lee is dead, isn't he?" Burke asked, his face twisted into a troubled look.
The Captain's eyes hardened into flecks of onyx as he stared at the visitor. "No one has mentioned anything about anyone being dead," he said in a slow, deliberate voice. "Why would you think this?"
Burke cursed himself. It was a foolish thing to have said. Not only did it violate all the cautions he had received about dealing with Koreans, it had shifted suspicion to himself. Everything he had heard and read warned that Koreans liked to go slow. It was necessary to work patiently to build a relationship of friendliness and trust before getting down to business. Here he was a stranger, worse, a foreigner, and he had played the proverbial bull blundering through the china shop.
Burke shook his head contritely. "I'm sorry, Captain. You'll have to forgive me. I've got a lot to learn about getting along in your country. I know it isn't your custom for someone to barge right in like this and start asking troublesome questions. But the fact is, I spent thirteen years as a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I think I know a murder case when I see one."
Now Yun looked perplexed. "You are with the FBI?"
"Not now. I used to be. It was quite a few years ago when I left the Bureau."
"I attended the FBI National Academy in Quantico," Yun said, a proud note in his voice.
"The hell you did." Burke's face broke into a grin. "Who was in charge o
f your class?"
"Mr. Birnbaum."
"Fred Birnbaum?"
"Yes. Agent Frederick Birnbaum. He was very helpful and understanding. I had studied English in night school, but I wasn't familiar with a lot of the legal terminology. He found a young Korean lawyer to serve as a tutor."
Burke nodded. "I worked with Fred in the New York Field Office. It's good to know he's been using what I taught him."
Captain Yun's eyes widened. "You were his instructor?"
Burke shook his head. "No, not his instructor. That was just a little play on words. He was a brand new agent when I met him. He was having problems with some of the procedures we were using. The Special Agent in Charge asked me to take him under my wing, help him out, that is. You know, get him off to a good start."
"As Mr. Birnbaum did for me," said Yun, nodding.
"Right. Fred was a class guy."
"I can understand your feelings about our customs in Korea. I remember how it was when I went to America. The people were kind and considerate, but they allowed no time to establish proper relationships. It was 'hello' one minute, let's go here and there the next. It doesn't happen that way in Korea. You may think from the streets and sidewalks of Seoul that everybody is rush, rush, rush, just like in your country. But that does not involve personal relations. When Koreans get together to transact business or extend friendship, the pace is much, much slower. We need to know much more about new people before committing ourselves."
As if to emphasize the point, one of Dr. Lee's ajumma walked in just then carrying a small tray that held a pot of barley tea, according to the officer, and several cups. She poured tea for them, then bowed and left. Burke took a sip and realized he had yet other tastes to cultivate. He enjoyed the strong tea served in Chinese restaurants back in the States. Compared to that, barley tea was virtually flavorless.
The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2) Page 16
